


Never Christmas

by thefrankydoyles



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 18:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrankydoyles/pseuds/thefrankydoyles
Summary: To Franky Doyle, there was no such thing as Christmas. It was just another fucking day.





	Never Christmas

**“Christmas is sights, especially the sights of Christmas reflected in the eyes of a child.” — William Saroyan**

 

**“Always winter but never Christmas.” — C.S Lewis, _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_**

* * *

 

When Franky Doyle woke up on her tenth Christmas, there were no presents under the tree.

There wasn’t even a tree. Just empty beer bottles and shards of glass and used needles.

She was old enough to know. Old enough to know that Santa Claus was not real— no burly old cheery man was going to climb down her chimney and leave her a pink dollhouse or a shiny bike.

But she hoped, that maybe, just _maybe_ , she would get what she wished for.

Miracles happened on Christmas, her teacher had told the class. You just have to _believe_ , she said.

So Franky believed. After all, _everyone_ came home for Christmas. All the songs on the radio said so.

 _I‘ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me_.

But her dad didn’t come home for Christmas. Not that year. Not any year.

And so Franky Doyle, at a very young age, learned the truth. There was no such thing as miracles, there was no such thing as magic. It didn’t make mummies with track marks stop shooting up. It didn’t make raw skin burn any less. It didn’t bring bring anyone home.

It was the same story in foster care. _Christmas_ , she learned, was only for the good kids. Kids with parents who loved them. _People_ , who had other people, who _loved_ them.

She was never convinced otherwise.

To Franky Doyle, there was no such thing as Christmas. It was just another fucking day.

Her first year locked up, on the morning of December twenty-fifth, there was a knock on her cell door. Boomer had bounded in, big stupid smile on her face, hands behind her back.

“Hope ya like it,” she fumbled, shoving a square box wrapped in old magazine paper, in Franky's direction.

Franky had looked at her blanky. “What the fuck’s this for?”

“Christmas, hey, Franky.”

Franky had grimaced, shrugged, and buried her nose back in her book. “Nuh. Don’t want it. Someone else can have it.”

She didn’t look up until she had heard the door click. The ‘you-just-shot-my-puppy’ look on Boomer’s face surely would have haunted her for the next several nights.

_She was shit._

She didn’t say Merry Christmas to anyone. Never went to her unit’s holiday party in the common area.

But three years later, on the morning of her _last_ Christmas at Wentworth, she snuck out of her cell in the early morning, before the sun rose.

Boomer was snoring, as usual; the girl slept heavier than a rock. Franky always envied the ability, but today, she was thankful. She was in and out in ten seconds and crept back to her cell, no one the wiser.

At breakfast, she was attacked with a million, loud kisses pressed against her cheeks, white Pom-Pom attached to an obnoxious red hat bouncing in her eyes. Her ribs squeezed so tight that she honestly thought for a moment that she would lose air circulation.

But Franky didn’t mind.

It was the first Christmas gift she had given since she was nine years old.

* * *

Franky huffed, grimacing, unconsciously swiping her fingers beneath her jaw.

She had been standing in this fucking card aisle for twenty minutes, and all of the paper and red and green and frilly words were starting to blend together. How could there be hundreds of cards, but they all said the same damn stupid thing?

‘ _My greatest joy this Christmas is you’_

_‘You are the best present I could ever ask for’_

_‘To my love, on Christmas— meet me under the mistletoe’_

Jesus, people really bought this shit?

Franky sighed, officially giving up. She turned to leave when a small voice spoke up behind her.

“Excuse me?”

A little girl, no more than seven, Franky guessed, was staring up at her with wide eyes, two colorful cards in her hands. One of them had the words _‘#1 DAD’_ written in large boldface across the front.

Franky looked around, double checking that this strange little person was actually addressing her.

“Uh, yeah?”

“I’m getting a card for my daddy, but I don’t know which one to get. I only have enough money for one. It has to be _perfect!_ ,” the little girl exclaimed, her high voice rising in volume.

“Oh, uh...hey, you know, I’m not really the best at this sort of stuff,” Franky fumbled, still taken aback by this sudden, strange interaction.

But the little girl ignored Franky’s words, continuing with her story.

“My daddy’s coming home for Christmas this year, mummy said! And he’s going to bring me lots of presents! He can’t come home a lot, mummy says it’s because he does very important work. But he’s coming home this year, and so I saved up all of my money and his card has to be _amazing_! So which one do you think he would like the best?”

Franky blinked, looking down at this small, hopeful little child. She had big brown eyes and long dark hair that was falling around her face from her half ponytail. She looked a bit like Tess.

She looked a bit like _herself_ , twenty-some years ago.

And all of the sudden, it felt like something was inside of her chest, squeezing and twisting behind her ribs.

Franky cleared her throat, and bent down on one knee to be closer to eye level with the girl.

“Okay, let’s see what’ya got, hey bub?”

* * *

Franky smiled into her book at the sound of the door opening, and the “ _Hi, baby_!” that floated down the hall.

She made her way into the hallway to see Bridget kicking off her heels.

“Heya,” Franky grinned, as Bridget leaned over to place a quick kiss on her lips.

“Follow me into the bedroom? I want to get out of these clothes, I’m sweating,” Bridget said, already moving to pull her blouse out of her skirt.

Franky raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms, eyes raking over Bridget’s body in exaggerated fashion. “Don’t have to ask me twice.”

Bridget winked, then laughed, her elbow nudging into Franky’s side before she headed down the hallway.

“How was your day?” Bridget asked, shrugging the blouse off as she crossed the threshold into the bedroom.

Franky followed, flopping onto the fluffy bed. She laid down on her side, supporting her head with her hand as she peered at Bridget, resting her weight on her elbow.

“Good. We settled the Schmidt case today.”

“That’s great, Franky,” Bridget beamed, t-shirt sliding over her head.

“Did some errands after work.” Franky paused, fiddling with a loose thread on the duvet.

“Helped a kid pick out a Christmas card for her dad.”

Bridget froze in the middle of pulling a pair of Franky’s boy shorts up her legs.

“You what?”

Franky looked at Bridget and shrugged, the hint of a knowing, disbelieving smile tugging on her mouth.

“Yeah, this little girl had two cards for her dad in her hand. She wanted my opinion on them. Must’ve been all that Christmas cheer I was giving off, aye?” Franky wagged her eyebrows sarcastically.

“Mm,” Bridget nodded, bemused. She finished pulling up the shorts and climbed up onto the bed, gesturing for Franky to scootch over.

Bridget settled on her side, facing Franky to mirror her position, and wrapped an arm loosely around Franky’s waist.

Bridget was silent, and Franky knew that she was allowing her space to continue the story.

Franky chewed on her lip, gaze returning to the loose thread on the duvet.

“She said her dad was coming home for Christmas. She wanted to get him the perfect card. Saved up all her money for the thing.” Franky’s voice trailed off, and she shook her head gently.

She wasn’t even planning on telling Bridget this. It was an insignificant interaction, a random encounter with a random kid in the middle of a crowded store.

Nothing special.

But when Bridget hugged her a little tighter, a little closer, she felt that familiar tightening of her chest. The same feeling she got in the store, earlier that day.

Franky closed her eyes, and pressed her face into the crook of Bridget’s neck.

“Did you help her choose?” Bridget asked, her voice gentle and barely above a whisper.

“Yep.” Franky’s voice was muffled.

She thought of that little girl— she didn’t even know her name; didn’t know anything about her except of her greatest hope. The same hope that Franky had carried for  _so long._

Franky didn’t elaborate, and Bridget didn’t ask her to. They laid together in silence, on the bed, their bodies pressed together, for god knows how long.

Bridget finally spoke, her lips pressed against Franky’s hair and her hand drawing light circles on her back.

“You’ll be home for Christmas this year, Franky.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always, to Ashleigh, for her second-to-none beta work. I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday!


End file.
